


The Wake of Saturday

by acareeroutofrobbingbanks



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Hella fucking sad, Like, M/M, Serial Killer, but i fucked up on timing, established relationship peterick, really sad, supposed to be BBB
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-19
Updated: 2014-10-19
Packaged: 2018-02-21 18:23:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2478038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/acareeroutofrobbingbanks/pseuds/acareeroutofrobbingbanks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fall Out Boy fans start getting murdered. But who is the real target?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Wake of Saturday

As much as he hated to be a diva, Pete had to admit that one of his favorite things about arena tours were how weirdly pampered they were. Smaller venues were staffed by underpaid college students, and the band ended up as roadies half the time, no matter how early the fans may have lined up. Arenas were well staffed. Extremely well staffed. And filled with all sorts of dusty rooms and video games and, yes, the occasional large hill for Pete to get himself in trouble on. It was more fun with Dirty, but he could rope Joe into a twisted scheme every now and then.  
But today they were tired. It was the mid tour slump, Patrick on vocal rest, everyone tired and sore and unwilling to do much of anything, and Pete was mostly excited to find a TV in the giant green room. To Joe’s vague disdain, he instantly turned on CNN.  
“You’re excited to watch the news? You get updates sent to your phone from four different apps all day long.” Joe scoffed.  
“Watching news is different!” Pete protested, because it was. The newscasters trying to hide their disgust or excitement, the blurbs to cheer people up, and the ticker at the bottom relaying news that hadn’t made the cut, but was often more exciting. A cheery, overly made up woman smiled as she relayed stories of another plane crash, another middle eastern crisis, and a string of midwestern murders, each victim left with a playing card over their mouth. It was somewhat interesting, but in the middle of the report, the Daily Show came on, and that sounded like much more fun.   
The show was amazing. The crowd throbbed with life and excitement and every now and then, Pete and Patrick and Joe and Andy would turn to one or the other and smile, the same smile, like they couldn’t believe it, like even now, tired and sore, they were so lucky. So unbearably lucky.   
“Coming out?” Patrick asked Andy in a raspy voice after the show, grinning and rubbing his face off with a towel. Andy nodded, pulling a shirt on as they waited for the crowd to thin out to go and meet some of the fans. Pete thought about the cards again. Thought about the murders, how odd it was, and he looked it up online.   
Plenty of news sites had written articles about it, but as always, the comments were far more interesting. People submitting their own crackpot theories. Towards the bottom of the comments, some boy posted a comment that read; “really weird serial killer, but it kind of reminds me of that old fall out boy video”.   
Pete stared at the white screen for a minute. Then two. He slammed the laptop shut, curled up in his bunk, turned off all the lights, and listened to music as loud as his headphones would turn up.   
***  
He tried to ignore it, really, he did. He managed to stay in his bunk silently all night long, and didn’t even touch his phone. After maybe an hour of sleep, he wandered around all morning. Trying not to think too hard. When he made his way back to the arena at by three in the afternoon, Patrick looked frantic.  
“Where have you been!” Patrick gasped, wrapping his arms around Pete’s chest and pulling him in tight.  
“Sorry, babe.” Pete said, kissing his head, letting his lips tangle in the soft hair. “I just needed to go somewhere, you know?”  
Patrick looked up at him with sad, worried eyes. His eyes narrowed, eyebrows turned in as he gazed up.  
“How are you?” He asked. Pete sighed.   
“Little fuzzy.” Pete replied. “It’s okay. It’s alright, sweetheart.” Patrick pulled him into a kiss, and stroked his jaw, with a small smile.  
“Aren’t you on vocal rest?” Pete asked, his tone vaguely scolding. Patrick grinned sheepishly at him, and said “sound check”, before pecking him again on the cheek, and leading him over to the immensely tall stage, filled with flashing lights.  
All through the show, Pete kept thinking about the cards, on and off, thinking of the Huff Post picture of a girl with an Ace of Hearts over her eye. And when they came back on for the encore, everything was amazing. The crowd roared, the songs stung- and when Saturday started, he felt a sickness brewing in the pit of his stomach.   
Pete didn’t go out to meet the fans, he ran straight into the bus and grabbed his computer. There were, so far, fourteen murders that fit the profile, and six of them were underage, ten total with names unreleased. The four that he could find, he looked up one of, a girl named Amy. Most of the links were toward news stories, but ten pages back on a Google search he found an ancient Myspace profile. To his ever increasing distress, the page was topped with the line “Fall Out Boy is my life”.  
The next murder victim’s facebook profile picture was her standing next to Patrick. The next one’s twitter had updates from a Fall Out Boy concert. Three of the four lived in Chicago. And Pete was going to be sick.   
But it wasn’t, obviously, about Fall Out Boy, that he knew for a fact. It couldn’t possibly be about the band, that would be ridiculous. Pete kept telling himself that it wasn’t about the band, no way was it about the band, because Saturday was just a music video. Saturday was just a music video they were just a band and no one would start killing off fans just because of one stupid music video there was no way no possible way no way at all-  
Pete was out the door, banging on the door of Patrick and Andy’s bus. The three remaining fans outside were all gasping, one cried “Pete!” and another squealing to her friend, but he barely heard them. He just kept slamming on the door of the other bus. The driver opened, looking cross, and he ran past her, finding Patrick, as could be expected, in the back bedroom, hunched over his computer with giant headphones in. Pete laid down next to him, staring up at him with wide eyes until Patrick looked down. He flinched in a comically over dramatized way, and pulled off his headphones. He grinned at Pete for a moment, they his grin sank into a nervous frown.  
“Baby, what’s wrong?” he asked, running his fingers through Pete’s hair. Pete opened and closed his mouth a few times, unable to get the words out. Patrick let his hands flutter across Pete’s scalp, and he took a deep breath.  
“The playing card killer.” Pete said. Patrick cocked his head.  
“The what?” he asked. Pete winced.   
“There’s a serial killer that leaves a playing card on all of his victim’s faces.” Pete said. “And one of the comments said it looked a lot like the Saturday video and Patrick all of the victims are Fall Out Boy fans and you have to admit that’s a bit suspicious.” His words tumbled out quickly, his eyes wide with the panic that sat in his stomach like tar, thick and boiling hot. Breathing heavily and blinking rapidly, knowing it was unlikely, and yet. Yet.   
“Pete,” Patrick said, holding his face. “It’s just a killer. Lots of people have playing cards, and Fall Out Boy is a fairly popular band. I don’t know if you’ve noticed,” Hhe laughed softly, “But your words are fairly famous.”  
“What are the odds, though?” he asked. “Not everyone likes this band, Patrick, loads of people don’t.”  
“I’m sure it’s nothing. You’re sure it’s nothing.” Patrick continued. Pete stared up at him, and Patrick sighed. “I mean, look, they hire people to do this. People spend their whole lives catching criminals, and if it were relevant, police would get in contact with us.”  
“What if they haven’t seen it yet?” Pete asked. “Murders could be prevented.”  
“Don’t worry about it just now.” Patrick said. “I mean, I know you can’t help it, but it’ll be alright. It’s probably just a coincidence, and you know that.”  
“Yes.” Pete said. “I know but.” But.  
“Do you want to sleep over here tonight|?” Patrick asked. Pete laughed.  
“And risk the wrath of Andy? Better not.” he stood up, kissing Patrick softly. “I’ll see you in the morning.” He promised, before walking off and back onto his and Joe’s bus. He laid down, this night pulling his laptop into the bunk with him and staring at pictures of the four victims with released names. Amy. Mark. Alex. Cintia. People with names and families and all sorts of loved ones that covered their Facebook walls with prayers and apologies and “we’ll miss you so much” messages. It couldn’t have anything to do with them. Not at all.  
***  
The very next day, it was pouring rain in line, and Pete snuck out of the bus, passing out sandwiches to the fans huddled up under umbrellas. He took pictures and signed ticket stubs and t-shirts obligingly, until he came across a girl who gave him a watery smile, crying as she hugged him.  
“Are you alright?” he asked, kneeling next to her. He put a hand on her hand, gazing into her eyes. She sobbed, leaning in and hugging him.   
“I’m sorry!” she whimpered. “My friend, she was supposed to come to this show, and she-” she sobbed “-she died just last night. She was killed.”   
“I’m sorry.” Pete whispered, hugging her close, while she sobbed into his shoulder. He stayed and comforted her for a bit, then met all the other fans as quickly as possible so that he could get back to the bus. He looked up the news. It was breaking, only a few hours ago, that another unnamed minor had been killed. One that was going to attend this very show.  
Pete played poorly that night, and it was obvious, his stage presence next to nonexistant as his fingers fumbled on the strings and feeling the other guys eyes on him in concern and embarrassment. He got in the crowd during Saturday, as always, but he .  
was shaking when he got back onstage. Patrick immediately pulled him aside.  
“Pete.” he said firmly, holding onto his shoulders. “What is it?”  
“Another girl got killed with the playing card.” Pete said. “I met her friend in line. She was supposed to come to today’s concert, Patrick.” His eyes were wide and pleading. Patrick kissed him, hard and deep, but it didn’t help the way it should have.   
***  
Things escalated, and when the first memorial post on the Overcast Kids website went up, Andy got concerned.   
“Apparently two members of Overcast Kids have been killed in the past month, did you know? Murdered.” he announced before going onstage one night.  
“Someone’s killing Fall Out Boy fans.” Pete said. Patrick looked over at him.  
“Maybe it’s bad luck.” he said. They were in denial. Pete was in denial. It couldn’t be happening.  
And it wasn’t happening, not when they were in that much denial, not when 40 people were dead. Not when Pete went on their bands tags on Tumblr and Buzznet, only to see posts about the Saturday Killer. Of course Fall Out Boy fans would think that it had something to do with Saturday. Everyone had a theory, everyone following the case, which was now quite a large sum of people.   
The last show of the tour was brilliant. They were loud, and everyone cheered and roared, and Pete felt alive during Saturday in a way he hadn’t felt in a while. Just before the show, Patrick promised that as soon as the tour ended, he and Pete could go home, be alone for a while. Patrick thought they were running themselves down again, grinding themselves into another hiatus, and in any case, thought they needed time to just be together.   
The relationship had been difficult to mix in with the band, just as Pete knew it would be. The four of them discussed it at length. They realized that if they wanted the band to work, Pete and Patrick had to be minimal on tour. Not sharing a bus, not having sex, no lovey-dovey stuff to prevent everyone from getting ultimate third wheel syndrome. It was straining, but it made the end of tour sex amazing. They weren’t quite married, as it was newly legal in Chicago, and there was a long wait, but it seemed to be headed that way. It was hard on the music, but they tried to keep it far away from work. Pete missed the closeness. Maybe things would be better after the tour. Maybe he had missed some name, someone who wasn’t a fan, didn’t live in the midwest.   
“Me and Pete!” Patrick wailed into the mic, staring out at the audience, stretching out into ten thousand people, all screaming back at them. Pete grinned over at Patric, who grinned right back, trying to sing through a smile that practically split his face in two. Andy pounded on his kit with more force than it could possibly need. Joe whirled and jumped and everything felt right.  
“THANK YOU AND GOODNIGHT!” Patrick roared, his voice cracking on the words.   
They ran offstage when the lights went down, whooping and cheering and hugging each other.  
“We did it!” Joe yelled.   
“Longest goddamn tour ever.” Patrick sighed.   
“And we made it through the whole thing.” Pete agreed. They all clapped each other on the back as Marcus ran up to them.  
“Listen, guys, I’m sorry, I couldn’t stop them from coming, and they had a warrant-” Marcus began, eyes wide and panicked looking, as eight policemen stormed into the back room.  
“A warrant for the arrest,” An officer at the front began, holding up a piece of paper. “Of Andrew Hurley, Patrick Stump, Joseph Trohman, and Peter Wentz. That would be you four?”  
The four of them stood there, sweating, with mouths hung open and eyes wide. The cheering of the crowd seemed distant and blurry. The policemen stepped forward and handcuffed each of them, marching them forward. Only Andy broke out of the stunned silence.  
“You have the right to-”  
“Don’t read me my Miranda rights, what are the fucking charges?” he screamed, twisting against the policeman that held a hand on the chain between his hands.   
“-you say can and will-”  
“Let me see your fucking warrant, we haven’t done anything!” Andy yelled.  
“-the right to talk to a lawyer-”   
“Fuck off.” Andy growled, but continued to walk forward rather than resist the arrest.   
They were placed into two separate squad cars, Andy and Patrick in one and Pete and Joe in the other. They stayed in complete silence on the ride, Joe looking at Pete, and Pete casting his eyes down. He could only think of one reason for them to be arrested, and it was the Saturday Killer. Joe always asked him not to call the murderer that, but it stuck. He even killed, Pete eventually noticed, on Saturdays. The news would always come out late Saturday or Sunday, always.   
Pete had no idea what to do when they got to the station. His lawyer mostly worked with copyrights and preventing him from getting sued, not for criminal charges. He still called her, and she made it to the station in under two hours, by some miracle he chose not to question.  
“Pete,” she groaned. “Have they told you what you’re charged with?”  
“No,” he said, “but isn’t it about the Saturday Killer?”  
“Don’t call him that.” she snapped. “You realize I’m your business lawyer, right? I’ve never even dealt with an assault case. You might have been better off with pro bono at this point.”  
“No, I wouldn’t.” he said. “We’re all being charged with murder?”  
“They’re picking off victims in the style of one of your music videos, you must admit how this looks.” she sighed. Her hair was falling in sweaty strands out of her ponytail. “Pete, Andy’s lawyer told me you mentioned it. Why didn’t you call me?”  
“Didn’t want to believe this.” he said. “Why now?”  
“Daughter of a state trooper out here is a Fall Out Boy fan. She pointed out the coincidences to her father.” she sighed. “Do you have a plan?”  
There was no plan. Pete was in a separate room from everyone else, with an officier occasionally coming in and questioning him like he was on a bad crime show, sometimes being kind, offering him food, but constantly asking about the fans. It couldn’t have been less than three days. Pete was certain.  
“What do you know of an Angela Chase?” they would ask. Bringing up names and families constantly. Telling Pete how much their families missed them. How much they loved his band. He missed his phone and dog and contact with the outside world, and Patrick. They weren’t allowed to speak to each other, but Pete presumed they were getting questioned as well. He had ironclad excuses for a lot of the murders, playing shows when the fans were killed that were many states away from the site of the killings. It seemed to take a very long time to get this message across.   
After what must have been days, absolutely must have been, Patrick ran into Pete’s interrogation room.   
“Pete.” he gasped, throwing his arms around him. Pete held him close, running his hands up and down Patrick’s back, holding him tight. Pete was shaking, but for once, so was Patrick, shivering like he was cold. He smelled rank, still wearing the clothes from the concert that had to have been a week ago.   
“They need to put us in a cell if we’re held another night.” Patrick said, and Pete stared at him.  
“Why?” he asked. “how long has it been?”  
“It’s nearly seven at night.” Patrick said. Stating the time, as in it had been merely one short day.   
“Just one night?” Pete asked, disbelievingly. Patrick nodded. He rubbed his hands on Pete’s neck, soothing the kinks in muscles that developed when you had been awake or semi awake for so very long. Patrick’s hands were still shaking, despite this. Pete grabbed them, holding on tight.  
“Hey.” he said, staring into Patrick’s tired, purple rimmed eyes. “Come on, you’ve been arrested before, this is old hat for you.” He grinned, shrugging. Patrick laughed, sitting down on the table. An officer led Joe inside, who walked over to them instantly, brushing damp and tangled hair out of his eyes.   
“So, murder charges, all part of the rockstar life, eh?” Joe asked. He looked exhausted, but still smiled wide.  
“Andy?” Pete asked. Joe shrugged.  
“Probably under the charge of resisting arrest.” Patrick said.   
“He didn’t resist.” Joe scoffed.  
“These cops are assholes.” Patrick said stiffly. “Absolute assholes.”  
“Any reason we’re getting locked in a room together?” Pete asked.  
“Because you’re free to go.” his lawyer said, walking into the room. She smiled tiredly at them, looking nearly as wiped out as they did. “There’s way more video evidence for all of your alibis than nearly anyone else on the planet, so that’s good news. You can’t have done it yourselves, anyways, and it doesn’t look like you are behind it either. We can’t prove it, but bail was easy enough to take care of. Figured none of you wanted to stay here.”  
“You are an absolute angel.” Pete told her, and she smiled tiredly again.  
“I know. You guys are more of a handful than any other band.” she laughed.  
Andy stormed in, shaking off the cop that walked behind him.   
“Motherfucker.” he hissed. “What assholes.”  
“So that’s it then?” Patrick asked. She shook her head.   
“Bail just means you don’t have to stay here. You’re still suspects.” she said. Patrick groaned, but Pete shook his head.   
“Let’s just go home, okay?” he said.  
“I need to meet up with all of you in a week.” she said. “Get together a team of criminal lawyers so that we can talk about this. You’re not out of hot water just yet.” She sighed. She kept sighing, sounding so tired. “Get some sleep, for now.” She waved her hand, and they were dismissed. It didn’t take long to catch a cab to the airport, Joe finding one to New York, Andy to Milwaulkee, and Pete and Patrick back to Chicago. Pete almost fell asleep on the plane ride, for the first time he could remember. He could still feel the anxiety swelling in his lungs, but he was nearly too tired to notice, dozing in and out of unfit sleep on Patrick’s shoulder.   
The two of them barely stumbled into the bedroom before passing out on the king sized bed, sleeping for hours and hours.  
***  
“Pete.” Patrick said, shaking his shoulder in the golden glowing morning light. “Pete, you have to wake up. There’s something you should see.” Pete’s eyes fluttered open to look at Patrick, skin glowing the same buttery gold as the sun. He was blinking a bit, his eyes still sleepy and purple ringed from lack of sleep and worry. The scene would otherwise have been quite beautiful. The crisp white sheets and old vintage movie posters adorning the walls, Patrick standing there, beautiful and softly lit, waking him up. Under any other circumstances, Pete would have been in awe of the beauty of the situation. How lucky he was. Had Patrick not looked as though he were about to vomit, twisting his gray shirt in his fists.  
Pete stood up, shaking off sleep with his blanket, and walking down the stairs. CNN was on again, just as it was when Pete first noticed the whole experience, and the same made up newscaster was speaking.  
“Reports have just gotten to us that suspects for the violent playing card murders have been arrested and interrogated at the end of their tour. American rock band, Fall Out Boy, have been listed the primary suspects for these murders. For nearly a month now, popular fan theories have been posted on prominent blogging websites that link these killings to a music video made by the band in their early days, and nearly all identifiable victims have in fact been fans of the band. No official statement has been-”  
“Turn it off.” Pete sighed, glaring up at the ceiling. Patrick did so, leaning into him on the couch.  
“Somehow I feel like this won’t do wonders for album sales.” he joked. He looked so sad, and Pete sighed, leaning back into him.   
“I don’t think we’re going to be leaving the house for a while.” Pete said, staring blankly at the black tv screen in front of him. “I mean, it’s not going to go well next time we’re outside.”  
“I guess we have the consolation prize of knowing that we didn’t actually kill anyone?” Patrick shrugged, grabbing Pete’s hands.   
“People are dying, though.” Pete said. “Lots of people. Fans. Most of their names can’t even be released because they’re under eighteen and-”  
“Stop.” Patrick cringed. “I- I know, alright? I heard enough of it when they were interrogating us, alright? I don’t think I can get much of a better guilt trip than that.”  
“I’m sorry.” Pete said miserably. “Didn’t think. It’s just really-”  
“Awful.” Patrick said, casting his eyes down. Pete laid his head down in Patrick’s lap, closing his eyes.  
“I can’t believe this.” he whispered. “It was such a stupid video, we just liked Fight Club, I mean…” he let himself trail off, and Patrick lifted him up, wrapping his arms around his chest.and holding him close.  
Whatever happy, end of tour sex and reunion time they had imagined wasn’t happening. Patrick and Pete spent the day calling family and friends and publicity directors, trying to explain the situation as simply as possible. Everyone was sad, and afraid. The fridge was empty, as were almost all the cupboards, but it didn’t seem like grocery shopping was an option. Patrick almost laughed when Pete mentioned it, and they found a website online that would deliver.  
“Think Joe might have had the right idea.” Pete sighed, eating some of the Vietnamese, delivered by a stoned looking teenager that didn’t know who they were. “I mean, at least his wife isn’t in the band. She can probably go out in public.”  
“Wish you had found a nice girl?” Patrick asked, eyebrows raising over the top of his thick framed glasses. Pete snorted.  
“No.” he laughed, shaking his head. “I’m doing alright.”  
***  
Pete had decided, the very moment the police had showed up at their concert, that he would not, under any circumstances, say “I told you so.” Still, after running through two of the most heavily crowded airports in the country and having the whole universe glare at him, Pete was rather inclined to snap at someone. A lawyer who was not his favorite was sitting at a table, glaring at the band as though they had done something wrong rather than sat around worrying and nail biting for days, panicked over deaths that they could not control at all. He had tried to mention it before, and he knew that they all shared the same wishful thinking in hoping that it had been a coincidence, but he wished he could tell them that he knew. Not that it would have changed much, but it might have made him feel a little better.   
“You will be fairly easy to clear.” the gruff, middle aged, cookie cutter lawyer told them. “If you give us access to phone and email records, it will take maybe three days of court to prove that you have no connection to the crime. In the mean time, you’ll just need to keep laying low. You may need to be put in protective custody, since you’ve caused enough of a sensation to make some people pretty angry.”  
“Super.” Andy said, his lip curling. “Fantastic. You can take your protective custody and shove it up your ass, I’ll be fine.”  
The lawyer glared at him, sighing deeply.   
“It’s for your own good.” he said, and Andy snarled at him, turning his head to the side.   
“Meanwhile,” the man continued. “I feel you have the right to be briefed on updates in the case, so I believe it’s only fair to tell you that a significant number of fans have reported having cards delivered to their houses. As of yet, one has died after reporting the card, so we’re not sure where this could go. The warning signs may be good news for us, though, so we’ll hope for the best.”  
“A warning?” Patrick asked. “They’re sending cards before the killings?”  
“And we’re trying to keep it under wraps to prevent people from panicking. It would cause hysteria, terrible pranks, not worth the effort to warn people, for they would only be more afraid.”  
“Well that’s really shitty.” Andy said. “People could be dying, you could help them.”  
“They are being sent as much protection as they can afford.” The lawyer said, and Andy scowled. “Your case will go very far downhill if you try to interrupt the police’ efforts in their plans.”  
“And we’d hate to look worse in the public eye than we do now, wouldn’t we?” Patrick said, sarcasm dripping off the edges of his sentence.  
The shock had begun to wear off by then, and something worse settling in. A deep sense of pervading depression in the air. Pete began hounding all the tags that related to the murders or this band everywhere, in within weeks, news of the card system had gotten out. Every week, at least one person would post a picture of a playing card in the Fall Out Boy tag, saying ‘look what came in the mail’. Some thought it was a sick joke from their friends. Pete followed all the blogs, and often times, they would stop posting altogether a week later.   
Pete could tell that Patrick was worried, partially because Patrick was in a somewhat constant state of worry over Pete, but partially the way he looked, trying to drag the laptop out of Pete’s hands at night and biting his lip while he looked at him. As much as he told Pete to stop obsessing over the case, there wasn’t much they could do while in a sentence of near house arrest. Pete knew Patrick was looking too, when he wasn’t trying to busy himself by working on music.  
Pete knew the full names of every single victim by the end of a week. He tried his best to contact their families. Some appreciated it, some hung up on him, some called the police. The third week after they spoke with their lawyer, Patrick recognized one of the names.  
“Who did you say again?” he asked, and Pete repeated the name, Patrick’s face fell, his eyes springing open wide, welling up with water.  
“I knew her.” he said, and Pete jumped to his side, wrapping an arm around him. “I used to see her after every single show in Indianapolis, she would always come out, has since two thousand and seven. I saw her on Soul Punk too. I liked her.” Pete stared at him as Patrick finished. A tear unwittingly ran down his cheek, and Pete checked the Overcast Kids forums again. He had a hunch, but he hoped he was wrong, desperately hoped.   
The very next day, Andy called in a frenzied panic.   
“My cousin got a card.” he said, immediately after Pete said hello.  
“What?” Pete asked, feeling his heart start jumping, pounding heavily in his ears.   
“My distant cousin got a card, not a fan of the band, not even close. And she got a card.” Andy said, his breathing into the phone labored. “Her mother called my mom today in tears, saying I had doomed the family.”  
“She must have been a fan.” Pete said, his chest feeling like it was on the brink of collapse.   
“Pete.” Andy whispered. “They’re getting closer.”  
Pete sank into a sitting position, falling off the bed and onto the floor as he pushed his other hand over his ear, as though he could stop hearing this.  
“I think you should call your family.” Andy said. “And tell Patrick to do the same. I already talked to Joe.” Pete nodded, even though he knew Andy couldn't see. He tried to find his voice, but his throat was in knots, so he just made an affirmative noise in the back of his mouth. Andy seemed to get it, and he hung up fairly quickly. Pete sat there for a moment, breathing deeply in and out, before Patrick walked in.  
“What happened?” he asked, the moment he saw the distraught look on Pete's face. Pete made no noise, just stretched his arms out and beckoned Patrick to sit down next to him. He sat by his side on the floor, and wrapped his arms around Pete, holding him close and timing his breathing till it was in time with Pete's. They sat there, breathing in and out, Pete letting his head sink onto Patrick's chest and listening to his heart thump softly through the shirt, something old, with a faded design for a Chicago local band.  
“Andy's cousin got a card.” Pete said after a while. Patrick didn't say anything out loud, just held Pete closer.  
“He said they're getting closer.” Pete added. Patrick nodded, resting his chin on Pete's head.  
“I don't know what's going to happen.” Pete said, and listened to Patrick's breathing until he drifted off into sleep.  
For a while then, the cards seemed almost random, but some connection could always be drawn back to the band. The man who owned the first studio they recorded at, the waitress on the cover of Evening Out With Your Girlfriend, a few old kids from the Chicago scene, no one they were close to, and still the occasional fan. People still posted “We still love you's”, and “Free fall out boy!” on twitter all the time, but parents were angry. There was a public burning of albums, which Joe laughed about for ages. Pete laughed too, and snuck out of the house to show up to the Chicago one, wearing big sunglasses and lumpy clothes.  
They could never figure out just when or where the Saturday Killer would strike next, and the problem with him was truly that he killed so much. There weren't enough police to protect every person that got a card. Even though whoever it was killed with a gun, they clearly didn't have many financial problems, because they would be attacking in another state every week. Most people didn't believe that it was the band anymore, but they agreed that Fall Out Boy was risky, too risky for people to even listen to.  
Each of the band members had a different aspect that could make them the saddest, and Patrick's, for whatever reason, was all the fans that stuck up for them. The ones that said they would gladly die for the band. He still did twitter Q and A's, ignoring the tweets that called him a murderer so that he could still keep in touch with the diehards.  
“Jesus, if anyone's earned our attention, it's them.” Patrick would say, shaking his head. “These kids are lining up like sheep to the slaughter over their belief in us, and that's something incredible.”  
Andy said it reminded him too much of religion, but he didn't stop Patrick. They all had to cope somehow. Andy himself was mostly angry, working out more and more, taking Pete's findings and trying to track someone down. Joe took it with humor, joking whenever he could, not being insensitive, but toeing the line. Pete wouldn't call whatever he felt coping, but he could keep the manic down by doing copious amounts of research on the man, and calling up everyone he had ever met to beg them to move and change names. Heychris actually asked to come over to talk to them.  
“Dude, this is terrible.” he said, shaking his head. He still smoked, dropping ash into an old egg cup as he talked. Pete shrugged.  
“You should get out of here.” Pete said. “I mean it. You're connected to us, and I know we've had out differences, but I don't want you to die.”  
“Thanks man, that means a lot.” Heychris shrugged. “I don't forgive you, but it means a lot to me.” Pete smiled, hugging him, and HeyChris smiled sadly as he left as well.  
The next big murder came to Pete like a punch in the gut, when his phone rang, to a caller not in his contact list. Patrick was out of the room, and he answered it with trepidation swelling up inside of him.  
“Who is this?” He asked, too nervous to go through the hellos.  
“Pete.” A husky, choked monotone came through, familiar but hard to place.  
“Who are you?” He asked again, his voice sharper.  
“It's me, it's Ryan.”  
Ryan. Ryan Ross, who by all means should no longer have Pete's number. Pete knew the call could only mean one thing, but he didn't want to believe it at all.  
“How did you get this number?” he wanted to ask what was wrong, but the words simply wouldn't come to him.  
“Ryland.” Ryan said. Pete nodded into the phone, as though he could possibly hear it. “I got a card.”  
“I figured.” Pete sighed. “Why don't you just call the police?”  
“I did. They can't do much. You have a lot of friends in LA.” Ryan somehow conveyed more emotions in a monotone than any of his ex girlfriends could in a range of volumes and increasing highs in their voices.  
“Why did you call me?” Pete asked, a bit of pleading slipping into his voice. Ryan laughed.  
“I have no idea. Sorry shit fell apart. Sorry you've got a crazy psycho after you. Sorry that you can't have a normal happy life. Sorry that you got torn down at your peak. I guess I'm just sorry. Sorry for you.”  
“Thanks.” Pete said, his voice thick with all the words unsaid.  
“Give Patrick my best. Congratulations, by the way.”  
“Yeah, I'll do. You gonna call Spencer?”  
“No thanks. I don't need to hear him hang up one last time.”  
“Okay.”  
The line felt dead a long time before Pete brought himself to hang up. He didn't expect how hard the actual death would hit him, seeing his name appear on Property of Zack. He didn't think Brendon would show up, banging on his door and screaming. He did not know that he would open the door to Brendon sobbing how could they do this, that he regretted the fucking day Ryan opened his livejournal account and sent a message to Pete. Pete didn’t expect that he would regret it too. Had never imagined himself leaning over the toilet and vomiting over memories of the bright eyed teenager that wrote one of the most famous albums of the decade. If his hair had been longer, Patrick would have held it, but as it was, he just massaged Pete’s back through his shirt, smiling sadly at him.   
It had only been two months since they had been arrested, and so much had happened. None of it good. Their manager suggested that the four of them make a statement.  
“Just to let them know that everything’s alright with you guys.” she insisted.  
“But everything’s not alright.” Pete said, blinking at her. She gave him a sad, too knowing smile, and said “That’s not that point.”  
So the band found an indy magazine that was willing to give them an interview through email, address the basic questions, and talk about safety precautions to take. It was all easy until Pete got to the last question.  
“What do these horrific incidents spell for the future of Fall Out Boy?”  
Pete stared at it for a long time, and fell asleep thinking about it. The next day, he wrote, “Let’s have the fans tell us.”  
“And what is that supposed to mean?” Andy asked when he called later.  
“It’s like what Patrick said.” Pete said, shrugging into the phone “If they’ve stuck around through this, we owe it to them.” Andy sighed.  
“What are we supposed to do for them, huh?” he asked. Pete shrugged into the phone again.  
***  
“Why aren’t you guys writing?” Their manager asked on a Skype group call she had organized. They all stared at her, disbelieving.   
“I’m serious.” she said. “You have to do something. You still have fans, and let’s be honest, this is publicity. It might not be the best publicity, but people are morbidly curious. It’ll make-”  
“Publicity!” Patrick yelled, standing up. “People are dying! People that I care about! People with lives and families and how dare you think that anyone could or should possibly capitalize on that! It’s sick!” he screamed, falling back into his chair. Pete stroked his leg, nodding down into the ground.   
“That wasn’t what I meant.” she sighed. “I’m concerned. You need something to occupy your time. Go back and look at your old demos or something, but I know you guys. You’re getting restless. You need to do something, or you’ll drive yourselves crazy.   
There was silence, for a moment, and Joe said; “I’ve been working on stuff, when I get too out of it, if we want to look at it.” he shrugged.  
They ended up writing. Patrick did more of the lyrics than usual, Pete’s not coming out in fully formed sentences, just the occasional phrase of poetry that Patrick could write around. It was good, but not amazing, and they put out an acoustic EP, just because they could and they had it. It sold, as predicted, to the morbidly curious and the infallible diehards, but it was certainly their worst seller. Pete was surprised it sold at all.  
Despite this, their manager had been right. It felt good to be writing again, to be doing something almost normal, and when they were focused on something, they had work to think about rather than death.  
It wasn’t as though no one had thought about ending the band completely, but somehow they always convinced each other to stay, for one reason or another. Something felt too important to give up on there, too monumental to let go of, and at least, as Joe had said in a joking voice but seemed to mean sincerely, they had each other.  
***  
Hayley wasn’t even home when she got her card. She had been out of town for a photoshoot, and there was no way of knowing when it had shown up. Even with her security around her full time, someone snuck in. It felt different this time, to know that no manner of protection managed to save people that were destined by this killer to die. Pete felt sick to his stomach. In comparison to him, Hayley had been a kid. She was too young to die, far too young.  
“We have to break up.” Patrick said one day, marching into the bedroom late in the afternoon. Pete felt his stomach sink through the floor, his heart drop into a black hole, supported by something less than air if it was supported at all.  
“No.” he whispered, tears welling up in his eyes. “Patrick- I- you can’t mean that.” He started crying, for the first time since all this mess had started, truly sobbing. “Don’t do this to me, I know I’ve been depressed but we can’t- you can’t- I can get better, try harder, we can move far away from all of this band shit and-”  
“What?!” Patrick yelled, taken aback. “Pete, I meant the band!” he cried, and Pete’s heart slowly stuttered back to life.  
“Not us?” he whispered, his heart still stammering as it tried to right itself. Patrick curled around Pete, pushing his knees on either side of him and holding his face tight in his hands, staring into the frightened eyes with lines of stress crawling their way up into his forehead.   
“Never us, Pete.” Patrick said, his eyes welling up too. “Never us. Come what may, I would sooner give up on breathing than give up on you.”  
Pete nodded, a fresh wave of tears bursting from him, holding his head in between Patrick’s shoulder and his neck.  
“Don’t leave.” he whispered.   
Andy and Joe agreed. There was an official statement, and a private agreement that they picked up where the left off if this nightmare ever ended, but until then, to just lie low.   
***  
Andy and Joe were over for dinner one night, hanging out as often as possible even if they weren’t a band- maybe more than when they were a band, now they had dealt with the situation hanging over their heads for so long. They were in the middle of dinner, a vegan pasta dish that Patrick had no idea how to make and was rescued from charring by Pete, when the doorbell rang. Gabe stumbled in, cursing and howling and raging in Spanish and English, fragmented sentences that made no sense.  
“I have a wife.” he said, staring at the far wall. “I don’t want to die. I may never want to die, but especially not right now.” he hissed, leaning back.   
“Who knows?” Pete asked. He was allowed to fall apart before, but this was Gabe. It was one of his best friends, and he need to be there for him.  
“Just you, unless someone’s listening at the door.” Gabe said, addressing the rest of the band that Pete imagined were probably listening at the door.  
“What do you want me to do?” Pete asked. Gabe stared at him, wide eyed and afraid.  
“Something.” he pleaded.   
“Then stay with us.” Pete said. “I don’t know if it will work, but we have to try, right?” Gabe nodded, curling up into the couch, hugging his knees, and despite his height and stature, looking very small for the first time since Pete had known him. Pete brought him out pasta, and they all ate in the living room, watching Wayne’s World, and laughing at each line as though they had never heard it before. It was odd, but to Pete, it seemed as though funny things were even funnier when all you thought you could possibly feel was sad.  
“You know they shot this in two weeks?” Joe said. “It was also listed as the 41st best episode of all time, and this movie popularized the phrase ‘that’s what she said’.”  
“I didn’t know any of that.” Gabe said, smiling begrudgingly.  
“None of it was shot in Aurora, either.” Patrick added.  
“I imagine as an Aurora native, you were very offended.” Gabe chuckled.  
“I’m from Glenview.” Patrick said, sounding offended.  
“If you’re from Illinois, you’re from the country, Chicago, or the burbs, and there are no other options.” Gabe said. “Is there anything to drink here?”  
“Water.” Pete said. “Our delivery service uses teenagers.”  
“Balls.” Gabe said matter of factly, and sucked at the edge of a water bottle.  
Joe and Andy decided to stay as well as Gabe, and his wife, who came to join them. All of the band took sleeping shifts so that at least one of them would always be awake. None of them really expected anything to happen during the week at any rate, they knew that if their were trouble, it would come on a Saturday.   
Certainly enough, that Saturday morning, when Joe was on duty, he got a call, frantic, saying that his father had woken up to a card in his bed. Joe woke up Andy apologizing, saying he had to go, please take care of things, and was gone before anyone else could get up. Patrick, who had taken the watch right before Joe, got the next call, this one about his brother who had gotten the eight of clubs. Andy got the next call, about a far closer cousin, and finally, minutes after Pete had been hurriedly shaken awake, William called, whimpering into the phone. No matter how much it hurt, his stomach had stopped dropping.   
“Please,” Pete begged Bill, “Just come over to my place, fast as you can.”  
“I have a daughter.” Bill pleaded. “Please, just do something.”  
Pete thought about Bill, and Gabe, and Bronx, and Genevieve, and let his head spin for a minute.  
“I’ll come pick you up.” he said. Erin assured him she could watch her husband for twenty minutes, just twenty minutes, he would be fine.  
***  
Pete wished he could say he were surprised when he came home to Erin sobbing and blood pooling on the floor, almost as much as he wished it would have been him instead.  
***  
Just as suddenly as it had started, it stopped. There had been a grand total of 63 people killed, playing cards shoved in their mouths or placed over their eyes like golden drachmas to pay their way into a twisted underworld. After two weeks of no cards showing up, people took notice. The Chicago Police Department was eager to claim that they had scared the killer away, and maybe he was gone. It was technically a federal investigation, but the epicenter was in Illinois.   
Pete didn’t allow himself to feel hopeful. Deep within his heart, he knew that it was his fault that Gabe had died, that the killer had offered him a choice. He couldn’t forgive himself, and after the funeral he spent great amounts of time locked away in his room, even locking Patrick out sometimes. He didn’t want to speak to him, to try and be cheered up.   
The months came and went, and killer had yet to return. A few people reported cards, but they were all pranks gone wrong, and for the first time in nearly a year, Pete felt like he could breathe again  
“You know, we could totally get married.” Patrick said one day, while they were washing dishes. Pete stopped drying his dish, turning to Patrick.  
“If this is your idea of a romantic proposal, I feel like you could have thought about it more.” he said, blinking rather rapidly. Patrick grinned.  
“If that’s your idea of an enthusiastic yes, I feel like you could have said it better.” he retorted, and they both started laughing, laughing so hard that they both crumpled onto the floor, dishes still in hand, leaning on each other until they were both gasping for breath.  
“Will you marry me?” Patrick panted, soapy and sweaty and breathless.  
“Of course.” Pete said, leaning over and kissing him deeply, trying to envelop himself into his new fiance.  
Pete thought that night, not for the first or second or hundredth or thousandth time, that he was so, so lucky, winner of the cosmic lottery, to have Patrick, and even luckier because Patrick thought the same thing of him.   
***  
Six months had passed since the end of the killings by the time they got married. It was a small wedding, because Pete had had more than enough of big productions when it came to his personal life, and thankfully, Patrick agreed, saying that his life was not a spectator sport. So really, only their family and close friends showed up. Brendon and Spencer seemed to have forgiven them, and they looked better. Each of them unable to pick between Andy and Joe, they agreed to just share groomsmen, because they had all the same friends by them anyways, and each of them took their brother as their best man. Outdoors, in a park well outside the city, they took traditional vows, in the least complicated ceremony Pete had ever been a part of. He drunkenly recalled an old Cobra Crew initiation Gabe had come up with, and managed to not end it in tears, but in laughter. Mostly, he didn’t care about the cake or procession or his family, but about the end of the reception, when he and Patrick took off for a month in a Spanish speaking country where very few people had heard of the Saturday Killer, and his connection to Fall Out Boy.  
Their honeymoon was as fluffy as a 1940’s musical, the first night after they got there Patrick dragging him onto a large balcony of their hotel, and forcing him to slow dance to a croony, wannabe Frank Sinatra song under the stars. The whole month felt like heaven, and Pete never, ever wanted to go home.  
Eventually, they had to return, Pete seeing the glimmer of restlessness in Patrick’s eyes that would come when he lingered away from his work for too long. Truthfully, Pete was beginning to miss it too. His hands itched for pen and paper, but the sun and starlight of the beautiful paradise they were in kept bleaching out the darkness that made ink flow. So they went home.  
Andy was the one to suggest the return of Fall Out Boy. Pete was the most hesitant at first, which was saying something. Both Joe and Patrick seemed adamantly against the idea, but Andy shrugged and said “Maybe he’s gone.”  
“And should we experiment with human lives at stake?” Patrick hissed. Andy stared at him for a long time, looking childishly hurt, then sighed, looking away. The four of them eventually settled on a compromise. The agreed to start writing together again, but not to return publicly. They would see what happened from there. No one was all the way happy, but none of them disagreed that writing was nice. Writing, and eventually recording, was more therapeutic than all seven months of waiting for something else to happen.  
***  
Pete never thought he would be excited to buy groceries. And granted maybe he wasn’t excited by the free range eggs and mounds of weird vegan food that he had to go scrounging for to find to feed his husband, but he was excited that he could do it. They he could leave the house and he wouldn’t get swarmed by reporters and dirty looks, and that he could act almost like a normal person. And also, he was excited that he was buying weird and expensive vegan groceries for his HUSBAND, capital H, someone he would call his soulmate if it didn’t sound pathetic in day to day conversation.  
He drove home listening to loud pop music, and hearing the radio show hosts talk about a celebrity scandal related to someone’s sex tape, he didn’t care much, he was just pleased it wasn’t about him any more. That maybe someday he could go back to making music with his best friends and not be the punchline to a vague and swiftly fleeting pop culture reference. Maybe, maybe not, but it felt hopeful.   
Pete shoved the door open with his foot, paper bags in either hand, and shouted “Lucy, I’m ho-ome!” in his very best Ricky Ricardo voice. He had sat the bags down in the kitchen by the time he heard the weak sobbing coming from the bedroom.   
Pete dropped the bags instantly, running into the bedroom with eyes wild, seeing Patrick curled up on the floor, unsure if he was seeing red or if blood was spilling and he couldn’t quite pick up on it. He grabbed Patrick’s shoulders, lifting him into a sitting position and meeting his eyes with panic, pure adrenaline coursing through his veins.  
“Baby, fuck, what is it, did someone break in, are you hurt, what’s wrong?” Pete whimpered, letting his hands glide up and down Patrick, checking for injuries. Patrick lifted his right hand up in front of his eyes, still sobbing, and put Pete face to face with a Queen of Hearts card, with one heart cut out of the center.  
***  
“I thought it was directed at the band.”  
“No, it’s directed at me.”  
“I don’t want to die.”  
“You can’t die.”  
“I’m afraid.”  
“So am I.”  
“Don’t leave.”  
“Never.”  
***  
“Let’s go on tour.” Patrick said one day. He had arranged another group call for the band, and they all stared at him. They knew, of course. He had told them, and the police, and his parents, and kept it otherwise under wraps. As far as they could tell, he was the only person to receive a card in a year.  
“Now?” Andy asked. Patrick nodded.  
“We should probably release the album first. Then let’s just go for it, soon as the record company will let us, or sooner, I don’t care.” he shrugged.  
“It wouldn’t be as safe for you on the road.” their manager warned. Patrick laughed, dry and quiet.   
“It’s not safe anywhere.” he said. “And I want to tour.” Pete stared right at him, coaching himself through breathing. He tried not to hear the sentences like a death row inmate requesting their last meal. “It wouldn’t be a big tour, all things considered, but we haven’t toured in a long time.”  
Nobody says one last time. The resolution in his face says more than anyone could verbalize.  
***  
They end up playing small venues that they hadn’t seen since before Cork Tree, despite the success of the album they put out. No one under 17 was getting let out by their parents, but the fans werefamiliar and intimate in a way that was foreign in arena tours. It had only been a few short years, but time flies in entertainment, and the world seemed ready to give Fall Out Boy a second chance. Or third, maybe fourth. Pete had lost count.  
It started in Chicago, looping to all small venues they could hit around the country, turning into a three month long tour.   
“We should write on the road, too.” Patrick said enthusiastically as they planned out the dates.  
“Yeah man, serial killers really set back this line of work.” Joe joked, and all of them laughed.   
It felt like a much more suspended version of the Wayne’s World viewing. Laughing harder and living harder with the threat of death hanging right over their heads.   
Every single venue was explosive, kids who had waited almost as long as they had during the hiatus screaming their hearts out, starting with Thriller, and ending with, despite everything, Saturday. They played their favorite songs, damned what the fans thought, but they all seemed to love it just as much. They didn’t have to cater to anyone else’s desires on this tour.   
The last show they set for the tour was in a small club in New York, cozy and graffitied and home to a shitty sound system, packed with an excited crowd of mostly college kids, just like back in the day.   
The show was amazing, burning, and Patrick was on fire, grinning at Pete between each song, and pulling him into a deep kiss before they got into the encore. It was unprecedented, and uncommon on stage, but Pete had never complained about Patrick touching him, and he didn’t intend on beginning that night.   
Saturday began as it always did. They played loud and hard and fast and grinned at each like there was no place any of them would rather be. Patrick smiled right at Pete the whole time.  
“And I’ve read about the afterlife, but I never really lived more than an hour!” Patrick sang, and Pete looked out at the crowd, grinning while he played, feeling alive again. But Patrick never sang the next line. He turned towards center stage a second before Joe, Andy already standing, droplets of blood mingling with the sweat on his face. A piece of skull was on his drum kit. Blood was pouring out all over the stage, and Patrick’s face was frozen into a position of vague shock and happiness, like he was thinking about how lucky he was at the same time as Pete. Patrick’s head was at the center of the expanding crimson circle on the stage, and a trickle of blood ran down from a small circle on his forehead. The screaming was turning to muttering was turning to gasping was turning to screaming and Pete knelt down, feeling something hot and wet soaking into his jeans.   
“Patrick?” he asked quietly, not quite registering the crowd behind him. Patrick didn’t respond, he just kept staring at the ceiling. Andy had rushed forward and was holding the back of the skull up the his head, trying to stop the blood from expanding.  
“Baby?” Pete asked again, his voice cracking. He looked up at the ceiling, but nothing was there. The amps were screeching feedback from the dropped instruments, and the crowds hum was turning into a roar. Pete leaned down, dropping his head onto Patrick’s chest like he did whenever he was afraid, expecting the gentle expansion, Patrick timing his breathing with Pete’s to make the rhythm more gentle, expected a soft and gentle heartbeat, expected his chest to be the living, comforting thing it had always been, but it was still and quiet. Pete hit it once, in the center of the sternum, willing the heart to start moving again. Pete hit the sternum again, pressing his head down and listening for a heartbeat, and hearing none, he hit it again with a scream. The scream felt so good that he couldn’t stop screaming, wailing and screaming a piercing scream as loud as he could to try and wake him up and bring him back. He screamed Patrick’s name as loud as he could, but no one seemed to hear him. Minutes ago there had been seven hundred people in the venue. Now Pete was quite certain he was alone with a corpse, and the buzzing in the background could have been screaming or laughing or crickets, but it meant nothing to him.   
Seconds could have passed, minutes hours or days, but when he looked away from Patrick’s increasingly pale face, the venue was empty, for real this time. Only Andy and Joe remained next to him.   
Pete found the last piece, the cut out heart, in Patrick’s bunk, underneath his pillow. It had been there for a week.  
***  
“Sorry things have taken me so long to arrange.” Pete said to Patrick’s mother on the phone. “It’s been hard to get things set up out of the public eye. But the funeral will be in two weeks, and the burial right afterwards.”  
In spite of himself, Pete smiled into the mirror. It was such a bleak joke. But it was the only cold smile he had been able to force out of himself.  
Two more weeks.

**Author's Note:**

> plz read Highway to Hell because it's my baby and I love it and I'm about to update I swear and peterick is coming to there soon enough.


End file.
